nochtaim mo chroí @nochtaim - Tumblr Blog

“My fear of being real, of being seen, paralyzes me into silence. I crave the touch and the connection, but I’m not always brave enough to open my hand and reach out. This is the great challenge: to be seen, accepted, and loved, I must first reveal, offer, and surrender.”

Anna White, Mended: Thoughts on Life, Love, and Leaps of Faith

weltenwellen

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

lifeinpoetry

“And I think that’s what a father is / —a blade that never stops cutting.”

— Desireé Dallagiacomo, from “Origin Story,” Sink

decapitated-unicorn

Jan Van Oost

‘the Knife’ 2004

ffoart

When I’m having a bad day, I always remember The Wound Man. Sliced, stabbed, punctured, bleeding, harassed on all sides by various weaponry yet still standing tall.my small tribute to iconic medieval image.

thegirlthatcriesacademia

All my grief says the same thing— this isn't how it's supposed to be. And the world laughs, holds my hope by my throat, says: but this is how it is.

Fortesa Latifi, The Truth About Grief

cimmerianweathers

Morning and Luna, by Carl Schweninger the Younger, 1903. Oil on canvas.

dogmotifs

hanif abdurraqib was really fucked up for saying “there is intimacy in the moment where the eyes of two enemies meet. there is a tenderness in knowing what desire ties you to a person, even if you spent your dreaming hours cutting them a casket from the tree in their mother’s front yard. it is a blessing to know someone wants a funeral for you.”

punkenglishnerd

“I had thought of suicide when I was much younger, as, possibly, we all have, but then it would have been for revenge, it would have been my way of informing the world how awfully it had made me suffer. But the silence of the evening, as I wandered home, had nothing to do with that storm, that far-off boy. I simply wondered about the dead because their days had ended and I did not know how I would get through mine.”

— Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin

fairycosmos

“Finally, she said, “I’m lonely,” because it’s weird but you tell the wolves things, sometimes. You can’t help it, all these old wounds come open and suddenly you’re confessing to a wolf who never says anything back. She said, “I’m lonely,” and they ate her in the street. They didn’t leave any blood. They’re fastidious like that.”

— Catherynne M. Valente, The Bread We Eat in Dreams; “The Wolves of Brooklyn” (via luthienne)

chthonic-cassandra

“Once I asked her if she wanted to bring the wolf to bed with us. I don’t mind, I said. It wouldn’t change anything between us. And she looked at me like she might say yes, like it might have been what she was waiting for, someone to pull back the coverlet and allow both her and her creature in, to love them both and not ask her to choose […] And then she said no. It doesn’t work that way, she said. It would change everything. You would vanish between the two of us, like a grandmother, like an ax. I love you, but there are things older and murkier than love. Things that live not in the heart but in the entrails. I don’t want you to see me with the wolf. I don’t want you to see what he does to me. I don’t want you to see what I do to him. I wouldn’t love you any less, I told her. But I would love you less, she said. I’m sorry. It’s in my nature. I like writers and Italian girls and red kisses just fine, but the wolf is a singularity, a collapsed, black thing that I can’t get around, I can only fall into. I was so young. I didn’t know anything. I said: I could be a wolf for you. I could put my teeth your throat. I could growl. I could eat you whole. I could wait for you in the dark. I could howl against your hair. She looked at me with an old, sour kind of pity. I flushed, naked in her bed, no wolf but a girl. Then a huntsman, I whispered. I could be that. I could cut you free. […] You keep doing that, she said, her eyes full of trapped, unspoken anger. You want to keep retelling my story. But it’s my story. It’s not yours. You can’t just make things up because you’d like it better if I had been braver, if I had killed the wolf myself instead, or fucked him in the forest, or started a lesbian collective with the hunter and my grandmother and the local midwives, and made sustainable jams and pickles for a modest profit. Because you’d like me better if I were a symbol of menstruation and sexual power. It happened to me, it’s the worst thing that ever happened to me. It’s the only thing that I ever happened to me. I own it. I own that wolf and the forest and my basket full of bread and my grandmother with her teeth in a jar […] You want to make it an instruction. A morality play. But you shouldn’t do things like that, if you love someone. It’s theft.”

— Catherynne Valente, “The Red Girl”

serratedpens

Danez Smith, “It Began Right Here”

recapitulation

[id: text that reads: “i’m learning to become all the space i need. i laughed today. / for a second i was unhaunted. i was the sun, not light from some dead star. i was before. i was negative. but i’m not. / i am a house swollen with the dead, but still home.” /end id]

totheescapement

“I love ruins because they are always doing what everything really wants to do all the time: returning themselves to the earth, melting back into the landscape.”

— Roger Deakin, Wildwood

pigmenting

“Either I am hunted or hunting so slowly I can’t tell. White fur, white teeth, closer, closer.”

— William Brewer, from “Relapse Psalm” in I Know Your Kind

snoppy

YOU CAN LEAN ON MY ARM AS YOU BREAK MY HEART

aqua-regia009

Leda (Detail), 2015 - Gail Potocki

chotomy

lines from the epic of gilgamesh that make me feel like this

chotomy

“You will take him in your arms, embrace and caress him the way a man caresses his wife. He will be your double, your second self.”

“‘Gilgamesh, save me, save me!’ I cried. But you didn’t save me. You were afraid and you didn’t come.”

“You who have walked beside me, steadfast through so many dangers, remember me, never forget what I have endured.”

“But I cannot see you, you have not come to fight off this danger. Yet weren’t we to remain forever inseparable, you and I?”

“Beloved, wait, don’t leave me. Dearest of men, don’t die, don’t let them take you from me.”

“I will mourn as long as I breathe, I will sob for him like a woman who has lost her only child.”

“For six days I would not let him be buried, thinking, ‘If my grief is violent enough, perhaps he will come back to life again.’“

“I will cross the vast ocean if I can. If not, I will roam the wilderness in my grief.”

“Now let the gate of sorrow be closed behind me, let it be sealed shut with tar and pitch.”

“I imagined that you would look like a god. But you look like me, you are not any different.”

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